The Doing of Your Work
by Lady Kes
Summary: Robbie goes to see Michelle Marber. Post-ep for The Soul of Genius - minor spoilers contained within.


He thought about Michelle sometimes, wondering how she was doing, whether she'd started recovering from Stevie's death, whether it was even possible for her to recover. He wasn't sure he'd ever recovered from Val, himself, or ever would, but he thought he'd reached a more stable point in his grief. He still wasn't fond of discussing it with anyone, but he could do it now if he had to. Fortunately, he didn't usually have to.

He'd told Michelle she could call if she needed, but after he'd had to tell her the truth about Stevie's life and death, he wasn't surprised that she hadn't. He'd told her as kindly as possible, maybe even as kindly as James seemed to think he would, but it was still a hard thing to say. It had to be an even harder thing to hear. Every mum wanted to think her child wouldn't do something like that until they did. Even after they did.

He'd passed her house once or twice on the way to do something else. It looked better than it had during the Hawes case, especially recently. That might mean she was doing better, or it might mean the house had changed hands. He could look it up, of course, but that seemed to be prying into her life, and he did enough of that on the clock. Best not to start with it off the clock too.

He might have left it at that forever, adding her to the long list of people he occasionally wondered about, if it hadn't been for a fortune cookie of all things. James had pointed out many times that fortune cookies were not actually Chinese at all, but it didn't stop Robbie from reading the fortunes. He usually read them aloud, even, mostly to hear James' dry comments.

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle," he recited, and glanced up at James. "Know that one?"

"Often attributed to Plato," James supplied immediately, cracking his own cookie and glancing down at the fortune, which he didn't seem to like if the expression on his face was anything to judge by. "And occasionally to Philo of Alexandria. It was most probably actually said by Ian Maclaren, a pseudonym of the Reverend John Watson, which makes the misattribution particularly entertaining."

Robbie wasn't sure why something being said by one man and not another was funny, but he was even more sure he wouldn't understand the answer if he questioned it. So he didn't. He'd already listened to an explanation of the symbolism inherent in some abstract sculpture anyway. That was enough incomprehensible culture for one day.

"C'mon, lad, time for you to do battle with the traffic," he said instead, and gently chivvied James out the door. Midweek takeaway was all well and good, but they had to give testimony the next day and fighting a barrister was well beyond a hard battle. Fighting a barrister was the Siege of bloody Leningrad.

It'd started him thinking though. Fighting hard battles. Being kind. He tried to be kind, to care for the victims and their families. The day he didn't have compassion was the day he'd turn in his warrant card. And it was compassion that made him think of Michelle, of who she was and what she'd needed.

A few days later, on a rare day off that stayed a day off, he found himself in front of Michelle's house, ringing the doorbell and wondering whether she'd even answer. She did, though, and she actually smiled at him.

"Hello! How lovely to see you," she said warmly, but then seemed to remember who he was. "It _is_ lovely, isn't it? You aren't here on official business?"

"No, no," he assured her. "Not official business. Just wanted to check on you. See how you were doing."

"I'm doing much better, I think. Please, come in." Michelle stood back and he nodded in thanks as he walked past. The boxes were gone and the walls weren't covered with incident room materials anymore, though she'd not bothered to repair the holes they'd left, or at least not yet.

"Would you like tea?" she offered politely, and he glanced at her, surprised.

"I told you. I'm doing much better. I have tea. And scones," she defended herself, and he smiled in apology.

"Tea would be lovely, thanks," he agreed, and stepped into the front room while she bustled off to get the tea. The walls were clean here, too, and he became more convinced that she really was doing better. He looked around at the pictures on the wall, seeing the woman she'd been and the life she'd had before she'd gotten caught in what James would probably call a maelstrom of grief. He used words like maelstrom.

Michelle came back in with the tea tray and set it on the table, then made ready to play mother, so he sat down opposite her and accepted a cup. He sipped cautiously at first, but it was good. Not herbal nor weak nor stewed.

"How have you been?" she asked him, sipping her own tea, which she'd liberally sugared.

"Oh, I'm alright," he said easily, and it was mostly true. He was still lonely, still missed Val, still saw people on and around the worst days of their lives, but it wasn't bad. He had his family, he had the satisfaction of a job well done most days, and he had his sergeant, who'd become his best mate without him really noticing it.

Michelle looked at him shrewdly, then sipped her tea. Whatever she saw in his face seemed to satisfy her. "I've been going to a support group recently, for people who've ... lost their children. It's helped. I'm not stuck anymore."

He nodded. He could see it, all around him, and it gave him hope that he'd made a difference again.

"You helped," she said plainly, as if she'd read his thoughts. "You were so kind and so willing to help me that I thought I could begin to help myself, a little. I was going to write you a thank you note."

He made a dismissive gesture with the hand not holding a teacup. There was no need to thank him for doing his job, and he was beyond wanting that kind of thing for any sort of career record. Michelle smiled, acknowledging his dismissal.

"Well, if you won't let me write you a thank you note, will you come for tea now and then?" she asked, putting her cup back in its saucer precisely. So precisely, in fact, that he was sure the casual invitation wasn't. It was another step forward for her, and perhaps one for him too.

"I'd like that," he agreed seriously, and her smile lit the room.

-  
The title is from a quote by Phillips Brooks: "Then the doing of your work shall be no miracle, but you shall be the miracle."

Hathaway's attribution of the fortune cookie quote is, as usual, correct. His fortune cookie, by the way, read, "Odds are, there's something you don't know."


End file.
